#captainqster

[avaritia-ffxiv]

Maailma on minun Maailma on sinun

[reap-the-game]

A misleading voice with a truthful whisper

[zylphiacrowley]

ൠ - random headcanon for the lad!

I've mentioned it in passing to a few people and in some tags, but since I never really get a chance to talk about it outright; X'vahl and X'rhun are related (shocker since they're from the same tribe lol). I think I'm going with X'rhun is his mom's cousin, so his first cousin once removed.

Has he actually met X'rhun in his canon? I'm not actually sure tbh, but he def knows about him both vaguely from his mom, but mostly from Alisaie talking about him and X'vahl going "I think that guy is my cousin or something?"

Thank you for the ask~! :D

[avaritia-ffxiv]

"Saga. What are you doing?"

[avaritia-ffxiv]

"A job well done, eh? And hear me, drinking the payment away is just the right way to celebrate, my friend!"

[reap-the-game]

Holding hope Won't let go Broken soul left to roam Seeing ghosts Breathing smoke These ashes once were a home

Yeah, I deserve a 21 gun salute For giving my life for you For suffering fatal wounds On your orders Like a soldier Waiting for my 21 gun salute

[reap-the-game]

He never felt it, as he should have, when his storm claimed another ship—only saw it after the fact, when the wreckage and the bodies of drowned, battered sailors washed ashore.

If they washed ashore and weren’t simply dragged to his depths, never to be seen again. He would not know, though. Would not feel it. What, then, did it make him feel when his island, his prison, became thus decorated by the debris of shipwrecks? How did he feel those times such as now, when he walked along a tropical sandy beach and idly picked through the detritus for any trinkets of interest? His storm always darkened the horizon, a danger to any ship that strayed too close, but a shield to him. Above him, clear skies, the blazing sunlight of the late morning warming his skin.

He felt as ever. Loss, but not over the life his storm claimed. The bruised bodies he walked by went ignored. No, his storm and the wreckage only reminded him of his loss, of everything he was denied that should have rightfully belonged to him.

Gia’s ears canted back as he straightened from picking up a prettily painted pot that had survived intact despite the undoubtedly harrowing ordeal of the ship carrying it getting caught in the storm. There it swirled where the sky met the sea, dark and foreboding and always in motion. Always churning the waters, always with its winds raging and its rain falling without cease—he looked at it, and his heart thrummed hollow where the sea had been carved straight out of him.

How many years had it been by now? He didn’t know, had utterly lost count. There had only been the island and its unyielding solitude for so, so long, and still the solitude was preferable to the alternative. He knew what would happen if he let his storm calm.

He could not allow that. No matter how many more ships strayed into it only to be torn apart by the towering waves and howling winds, he could never let it stop.

The prettily painted pot was tucked under his arm and Gia continued along the shoreline, staying well clear from the peacefully washing waves that refused to be disturbed by the distant storm. As he went, he tried to guess what manner of ship this one had been. A merchant ship? Military? Pirate, even? The clues were scarce, leaving things largely up to his imagination—a crew fighting for their life as their course proved dangerous, orders yelled over the rain pounding on the ship’s deck and the unrelenting scream of the wind.

All for naught, in the end. All in futility as their mistake became fatal and all hands were lost.

Or… Most hands.

He wasn’t sure what alerted him first. Was it simple intrigue over the unmistakable Vieran ears, so similar to his own even if their color and length of fur was different? Was that what had him glancing a second time, this time to take notice of the body’s color that wasn’t quite so dead as that of all the others ready to be picked by the seagulls and the rest of the island’s wildlife?

Did his ears even catch the bare wheeze of breath?

Gia froze mid-step, those ruby-tipped ears of his now rotating towards the body of the tan Viera. His clothing was torn and his body littered by bruises and wounds from no doubt being tossed and thrown against the ship’s debris at the very least, if not the rocks and corals as well.

But his chest rose, then fell. Then rose again.

He was… Alive?

The prettily painted pot was discarded immediately, falling into the soft sand with a thud as Gia ran those remaining steps between himself and the other Viera and came to stand next to him. He looked unconscious, no surprise, but without a doubt now…

He breathed.

And Gia dropped to his knees, hesitating with his hand hovering mid-air before he most carefully laid it upon the man’s shoulder. His clothes were still wet; the sun hadn’t had the time to fully dry him yet. When Gia brushed strands of hair from the man’s face, his fingers touched cool skin.

But he was alive. Barely, perhaps, but…

Very unlikely was he to stay that way if left here, though, that much Gia knew even amidst his shock.

What to do?

He wasted precious seconds considering that, idly listening to the wind in the palm trees and the seagulls and other birds making their sounds above and around him. He could leave the man, the man would most likely die, and nothing would change. Things could continue as they had for hundreds of years already.

But did he want that?

Or he could try to save him and from there on… Not be alone.

Oh, to not be alone. To hear the voice of another, feel their touch, share their company…

Decision made, Gia moved, and as carefully as he possibly could, picked the man’s dead weight up. Were he not used to doing every task in his life by himself, carrying this or that no matter how heavy it was, well, he could only imagine how poorly the feat would have gone. Even with that experience of moving heavy things from one place to another, the near-drowned man was not small, and his weight across Gia’s back was a struggle when his second opponent was the hill his cabin sat at the top of.

But he made it. With great difficulty but even greater determination, he made it, carrying the Vieran man all the way up the hill and into his little cottage where he carefully set him down on his bed.

Once there, his wet clothes were cautiously removed and tossed aside to see the end of their days as rags or kindling—all they would be good for anymore, with the state they were in. The now naked body was covered with a blanket before Gia rushed to his shelves of herbs and other useful these and those, picking some apart from their brethren with deft fingers and quickly mixing them together into a murky liquid. A sniff confirmed the smell of the finished concoction was as it should be—that was, absolutely vile, prompting him to make a face, but at the very least it should do its job of disinfecting the man’s wounds.

A bucket of boiled fresh water and a clean rag later Gia returned to the side of his bed, setting the bucket onto the floor before he began the process of wiping the man’s body clean. Special attention was paid to his wounds, salt and dirt rinsed out of them in preparation for him to use his potion on them afterwards. As one among the injuries the man had sustained was a cut on his face, right under his eye, and Gia was particularly careful as he dabbed that clean. He frowned at the eye it seemed to have affected—though both of the man’s eyes were closed, this one had bloody tears running out of it steadily. Damage to the eye itself, then?

After a moment’s consideration, he leaned over the prone body and gently pulled the upper lid out of the way a bit, only to… Confirm the eye behind it was a mess. Gia’s frown deepened, and though he made a mental note of mixing together something to put into the eye… Well, he doubted he could save the sight in it, even a little. Most likely that was already gone irreparably.

But if he could make sure the man kept his life… Surely the sight in one eye was a small price to pay when the alternative was to simply join the innumerable unnamed bodies in the sea?

So Gia went about cleaning his new companion from head to toe. He was a handsome man, that much was apparent despite his injuries. Tall, strongly built, with auburn hair and black-tipped ears, his warmly toned skin holding a color that suggested he was quite used to being under the sun. And Gia… Found himself truly wishing he would survive. As he took his potion and poured a bit of it into each and every wound, hoping the man was unconscious enough to be spared the sharp sting of it, he… So wished. There was only so much he could do beyond seeing to it his body stayed warm, his wounds clean and free of infection, the deepest of them gently bandaged, but if the man had a fighting spirit, then perhaps… Perhaps he wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.

He left the man on his bed, tucked under a blanket after dressing him in trousers he judged to be the only pair he owned large enough to fit him, and went about his life around him. There was still his garden to tend to, food to cook, things to clean, water to fetch and boil, traps to check—the day passed into night and Gia cleaned the man’s wounds again before taking a spare pillow and blanket and making himself as comfortable as he could in a chair, worried as he was about joining this addition to his island on his own bed lest he worsen his injuries by accident.

Come morning, again would there be a procession of daily chores performed with familiarity, but now… Things were a little different.

Things felt a little different. There was a nervous excitement, a shy but insistent hope as he stole countless of glances at the man and wished for him to pull through, to wake up, and did what he could to aid his newfound company in achieving that. His wounds were kept clean and dressed where appropriate, and as Gia waited and hoped, hoped and waited for him to fully regain his consciousness, he took some of his cotton cloth from storage and began on a shirt that would properly fit the other. Keeping himself busy and optimistic was far preferable to the endless fretting he was only going to succumb to otherwise.

[reap-the-game]

captainqster:

The Shroud was a forest, or maybe a woodland. He hardly knew the difference. Either way it was no jungle. The trees were less sturdy. Their boughs were unimpressive. Still, Ilya made use of them. He navigated the canopy high up in pursuit of a wayward trio of Garleans who had left their station to cause trouble in a small village. They were perhaps a half-day ahead of him, and he’d been trailing them steadily since the late evening before when a hysterical Eorzean woman begged his intervention. They’ve stolen our crops, she cried. They’ve torched our woodshed, she shrieked. Oh, and they gave my husband a good knocking about, she told him with less upheaval. Through this, Ilya had regretted the visibility of his bow with a scrunched-up nose. These people had a sixth sense for adventurers, even if he was only one on paper and not in heart. He finally sighed and agreed to chase this trio of troublemakers back over the Shroud’s border. Or kill them if necessary, though he felt no particular way about it. If asked, Ilya would say that Garleans were a blight, and he’d say it without feeling. It was an old sentiment learned from his mentor who’d had no enthusiasm about anything besides himself. But that was what Ilya had been taught. Garleans were a blight. Just kill them and be done. So he tailed said blight. The moment he saw their backs he meant to send an arrow through each one and call it good. He trotted and jumped from bough to bough, sure-footed and silent, and the knives at his belt were a last resort. A hood hid his Vieran ears, which lay flat against his head, a thing which impacted his hearing to an annoying but not crucial degree. A veil of dark mesh covered his face. The last thing he wanted was to make a name for himself. Who knew who might come knocking if word went ‘round that a Viera of his description was traipsing around Eorzea fixing things, for gods’ sake.

He’d just heard the rumblings, passing through as he was. Garleans, sighted in the Shroud. First there was the familiar feel of his heart picking up pace until it was hammering in his chest, so loud in his ears he was always surprised none of the other races seemed to hear it—he would have bet a Viera would have. His mouth dried, every sense sharpened painfully and every part of him told him flight... And yet, with long practice he hid his nerves to the best of his ability, blinking without care. Ask how many. Not many. No definitive numbers, but maybe three? Good enough. Not too many. Most likely. And even if it turned out to be more than that, he could always turn around and leave with no one none the wiser to his presence. He needn’t commit to anything. So he bid the people good luck with their Garleans and continued on his way after paying them for some foodstuffs. But even if a part of him told him to not bother, what did it gain him– Irrational things, it gained him. Vengeance. He knew the chances of them having anything personally to do with him were abysmal, but that was what reason said. Fuck reason, whispered a more emotional side of him. Make them pay. Here’s a chance. That was the side he listened to. It was a simple enough task to loop back around to check the area where they had been seen last and to pick up their trail. It didn’t look like they were making that big an effort to hide their tracks. Overconfidence or stupidity? Either way, it would cost them. There was no part of him that was at ease, but determination mingled with the trepidation and drove him onward. Sometimes walking, sometimes jogging, at times running outright along the forest floor, always making sure he was on the right path and not losing his heading from where he wanted it to be. His rests were short but enough—not like he could still very well anyway, not from how jittery he was feeling. He wanted this over with. He’d never know peace if he didn’t get them, if he lost this opportunity, but pursuing that goal certainly lost him all of his more momentary peace as well. Better that than the alternative, though. Better this than walking away and forever thinking how he could have, if he just hadn’t been a coward. He wasn’t that far off anymore, Gia concluded after stopping to make certain the incautious tracks he was following were still the right ones. His red-tipped ears turned as he scanned the area with all of his senses, rotating his shoulders against the weight of his scythe at his back. Safely with him, ready to unleash some bloody payback... When the time came. Not yet. He was straightening himself from his crouch when a sound caught his attention. Barely there, just a rustle, really. Was he wrong about how far from his quarry he was? But no, that didn’t add up. Upright ears twitched when they informed him the subtle sound was coming from... Up? That was no animal, was it?